Sunlight
by WiseAbsol
Summary: When Azula has to give up her daughter, she demands that Zuko be the one to raise her. A companion piece to Kayasuri-n's "Fire Lily," which can be found on her AO3 account.


**Story Note:** This is a companion piece to Kayasuri-n's "Fire Lily," which can be found on her AO3 account. I would advise reading that first to avoid confusion.

* * *

 **SUNLIGHT**

* * *

"However it is debased or misinterpreted, love is a redemptive feature. To focus on one individual so that their desires become superior to yours is a very cleansing experience."

—Jeanette Winterson.

* * *

Despite the madness that eats at her mind and the storms that cloud her thoughts, Azula is certain of one thing: she does not trust Zuko.

Trusting him would imply that she's forgotten that he stole her throne. Trusting him implies that she's forgiven him for throwing her into an asylum. However, she does _know_ Zuko. She knows that he is soft, that he is sentimental, and that he is—despite those weaknesses—still strong and has strong _allies_. They could not have overthrown her father or her without some form of strength. She also knows that he values his family— _all_ of his family—even after most of them have been condemned as war criminals. He proves that by visiting her once a fortnight, every fortnight, though she hasn't asked for him nor wants him near her.

So when she realizes she has to give up her daughter—because she _must_ , for Rin is not safe with a _monster_ like her—she demands that Zuko be the one to raise her. She knows he will make sure Rin is safe. Perhaps the water peasant can watch over her daughter, too, for the woman is nothing if not maternal, and she is a powerful opponent as well. Azula has been humbled enough by her captivity to grudgingly admit that. If nothing else, the peasant will be a formidable foe for any would-be assassin. Azula has watched her brother and the peasant enough to know this of them. And in the end, sometimes the enemies you know are better than the friends you don't.

Zuzu insists on telling her about Rin's progress during his visits. Azula isn't certain she even wishes to know, but Zuzu tells her anyway, believing it's his duty as Rin's guardian to tell Rin's mother everything. He tells her Rin excels in her classes, that she has the makings of a powerful and innovative firebender, and that her flames burn blue, just like Azula's did (back when Azula was allowed to handle fire).

Azula is not surprised to hear this. She would have expected no less of her daughter, of the child who shared her body and blood and had blue sparks kindled in her veins. The child might not be legitimate, but Rin is _hers_ , and so long as her blood doesn't tell in _other_ ways, Azula will be content.

(Zuko tells her that Rin is kind and high-spirited. He stops just short of saying she isn't like _her_.)

One day, she wakes to the sound of people hurrying outside her room. She notes how no one will look at her—not that many ever intend to (even the shrinks lower their eyes). But this avoidance is deliberate. She's studied people long enough to know.

Eventually she hears their whispers: "Princess Rin has been kidnapped!"

Azula's blood, for the first time she can remember, runs cold.

Zuko has failed her. The water peasant has failed her. She paces, like one of the ligers Zuko has grown fond of keeping by his side (he said Rin liked to ride on their backs, but where were their fangs when she was taken?). When her meal arrives, she demands answers. Her nurses cower, despite knowing she can't incinerate them on the spot. The warden arrives soon afterwards. He tells her that the Fire Lord and the Avatar have already gone to rescue her daughter. When he leaves, Azula does not eat.

Later, she hears the news: Zuko, the Avatar, and the princess have all returned, safe and sound. Something in her uncoils, but then acid churns in her belly as she begins to rage. It is safe, now, to rage. For the first time in her incarceration, she orders the warden to bring her brother to her. She isn't certain whether the man obeys her in the interest of her mental health or if he obeys her because—even in this place—those of royal blood still command respect. She prefers to believe the latter.

Eventually Zuzu comes. She glares at him, itching to make his right eye match the left, but she snarls instead. "I gave her to you so she would be safe!"

"She is! I promise," he says, as if his promises to her had ever meant anything to him.

He explains that Rin was taken by Ozai loyalists, who believed that—since Ozai had appointed Azula his heir, and Azula, as Fire Lord, could wipe out the mark of bastardry—Rin should be next in line for the throne. They would have raised her to loathe her uncle and uphold her mother and grandfather. They would have used her to overthrow Zuko and re-establish the Empire of Fire. Some had even whispered that Ozai had intended Rin's conception—for Zuko hadn't had nor yet had an heir of his own.

Azula didn't know whether to laugh at the absurdity of the idea or not. Father, approve of his daughter having a bastard child? They clearly didn't know Ozai at all, nor did they know her. The loyalists may have believed they were doing her will—but her will had been for Zuko to raise Rin and no one else.

Had she the choice, she would have turned them all to cinders for their insolence.

"Did you eliminate them, brother? I'm certain they were causing you no end of trouble." She'd heard of the assassination attempts. It seemed probable that this abduction had been orchestrated by the same people.

She looks carefully at Zuko's face and sees, for a moment, a sickened look cross it. Then his expression goes stony. He nods. _Father would be proud_ , she thinks. She says instead, "I'm sure the Avatar was displeased."

Her brother refuses to look at her. He stares at their reflection in the window instead, then tells her, "Aang wanted me to pardon them. But they…they took _my niece_. I couldn't forgive them for that. Katara understood…."

Azula nods. The water peasant has iron in her, at least where her family is concerned. That is a quality she can count on, if nothing else.

Not long afterwards, Zuko returns with a leather-bound book. He places it on her nightstand, telling her it's her birthday gift this year. She'd been born on the summer solstice. They'd always celebrated with the screams of grasshopper-cicadas shrill in their ears. He'd been born on the winter solstice, when the grounds were silent and the gardens were frosted over. She'd been born lucky; he'd been lucky to have been born. Then the world had turned and their fates had shifted.

Drawing herself away from those thoughts, she walks over to the book and opens it. Her breath catches in her throat at what she sees. There are portraits in its pages—portraits of Rin, who looks so like her, except her hair is cut differently and her eyes are softer. In one picture, she is smiling and digging up vegetables from a garden with her bare hands (Azula blames the water peasant for _that_ ).

The pictures aren't paintings, she notes, but thick sheets of paper, glossy and somehow starkly realistic, like she's looking through a window and seeing _her_.

"The Mechanic made a new invention. He calls it a daguerreotype. I ordered one and learned how to use it and—well, I thought you'd like to see her. These photographs will help you do that, since you don't want her to come here."

He keeps dropping hints like that—that he thinks she should see Rin and that Rin should know _her_ —but Azula remains adamant. She doesn't want Rin here. It isn't safe—she can barely stand Zuko seeing her like this—and the thought of seeing Rin makes her _ache_. Just looking at the "photographs," which Zuko will continue to give her over the months and years to follow, makes her ache and wonder, sometimes, what might have been...

She tries not to think about it. She tries, instead, to focus on what is _real_ and in front of her. She sometimes still sees hallucinations in the mirror, still hears whispers in her head, still feel ghosts wrapping her up in their cold arms. Her mother is her most frequent visitor, but sometimes there is Ozai (always frowning), and Ty Lee (always smiling), and Mai (always staring with the faintest of sneers), and others that she'd seen but can no longer name. Sometimes she doesn't even recognize those she knows better. It doesn't help that Zuko has grown so much. There are days when she doesn't know who he is, this man who looks like Ozai but has Ursa's gentle gaze.

Zuko tells her about those meetings with him weeks after they happen. It's not as if she forgets them—her problem is that she remembers _too much_ _._ But she believes him, because Zuko doesn't lie to her anymore, especially about something as important as this.

On the worst days, it becomes hard for her to remember where she is or what year it is. Are they still at war? Will she wake up one day and be in her quarters in the palace, on her ship, in Ba Sing Sei? Sometimes she thinks she does. Sometimes her dreams and her memories, which blur together into an milky stew, nonetheless seem so very real and tangible to her.

But worse still are the nights when she dreams of a future she'll never have. She sees herself on the throne of the Fire Nation. She sees her father ruling the world from his new capital. She sees her mother return from the dead to whisper, "I love you, I'm proud of you, you're not a monster, _you never were_."

At peace, she rises from her throne and goes to the turtle-duck pond, where Rin is practicing her firebending. Azula cannot see other scenarios unfolding between them—they unravel in her mind when she tries—but she can see herself teaching Rin the art—for it is an _art_ —of bending blue fire in ways no one else has ever seen before. She looks on, filled with pride, and knows she will defy anyone who says Rin cannot reign after her.

She is the Fire Lord and her word is law.

Besides, Azula knows that she will never marry or have another child. In its own way, Rin's conception had taught her that. Oh, it had been pleasant, but Azula is certain now that she will find no equal. There is no one worthy of sharing her power with. Except, perhaps, for Rin—for Rin is her pride. Perhaps her redemption, too, since Rin is the one good thing that Azula has given to the world. In her rational moments, Azula knows this. She also knows that she has Zuko to thank for that. But he accepts no thanks—this is his _duty,_ after all—and she does not give him them.

Sometimes she remembers how the truth goes, though. Ozai fell and Zuko rose, and Azula was left broken in spirit, her flames fading as the months went by. She was sickly and feverish, she knows, and it took her weeks to realize what the kernel of warmth in her core truly was. The nobleman from the beach had given her a gift—and because it was all she had left, she kept it hidden. She willed herself to keep her food down and kept her clothes loose. She amused herself with the thought of Zuzu's shock when she revealed it, but that damned water peasant found out and told him first.

He'd gaped like an eel-fish. She cherishes the memory.

His shock had soon turned into righteous fury. He'd demanded to know who the father was. Who'd taken her to bed and hadn't had the decency to give her black dragon root tea afterwards? The question had come out as a hiss, and it had taken her a second to realize that he wasn't angry _at her._ No, he was angry _for her sake_.

Zuko, who'd always been so concerned about his honor, had suddenly been concerned about _hers_ instead. The irony had been delicious, but also unsettling. She'd reacted by draping an arm over her stomach and saying dryly, as if she wasn't disturbed by it, "What does it matter, Zuzu? It's not as if I need the financial support—and besides, my reputation is far from praiseworthy these days. Having this child out of wedlock will hardly hurt my social standing."

"That's not what I—" he'd sputtered, his hands fisting at his sides. He'd visibly forced himself to relax (he'd always been too open with his feelings) and then murmured, "Please. I have to know, 'Zula."

It was an old nickname—one he hadn't used since before she'd first firebent. Hearing it had made something twist violently inside of her. Hearing it had made her want to _hurt him_. So she'd kept him waiting for an excruciating minute, and when he'd looked as if he was going to burst from his skin, she said in a perfectly level voice, "It's father."

He'd given her a frustrated look. "That's what I'm asking. Who is it?"

She'd rolled her eyes, wondering how he'd survived as Fire Lord when his skull was that thick, and repeated the words, "It's _father,"_ with a different inflection and an implication that even Zuko couldn't miss.

His hadn't understood at first, but when her meaning had sunk it, he'd paled and stared at her with horror. He hadn't known what to say, and in the silence that had stretched between them, she'd relished the nauseated look on his face. When that look had become pained, though, and then pitying, she'd felt her pleasure fade. She'd looked away from him and said, "You're still so gullible, Zuzu."

His anger hadn't been so righteous after that. He'd told the nurses to withhold her desserts for a week, but Azula had considered the loss well worth it.

But when she'd thought back on that conversation, she hadn't known what was sadder: that he'd believed her lie or that the lie had been plausible to begin with—for Ozai had never been kind to either of his children. She'd remembered the way their father had looked at her over his spiced wine. She'd remembered how he'd given her Ursa's favorite robe and smiled as she'd slipped it on. She'd remembered how he'd admitted, once, that she looked more and more like her mother every day...

She'd pushed those memories away and tried not the dwell on the sour taste in her mouth.

In the months that had followed, Rin's father had never stepped forward (he'd probably convinced himself that Rin wasn't his) and Azula hadn't spoken his name. Zuko never did learn who the man was. Over time he'd learned it was better not to ask.

She would have preferred to give birth alone—let the others _burn_ if they dared interfere. But the water peasant had insisted on acting as her midwife (at least she was willing to take _her place_ in _that_ ) and it was fortunate that she had. Azula had been sicker and weaker than she'd realized and the birth had nearly killed her and Rin. Something as natural as childbirth, rather than the war, had nearly killed _her._ Agni had a strange sense of humor sometimes.

Yet afterwards, her daughter had been handed to her, still bloody and screaming and—and had it been any other creature in the world, Azula would have carbonized it then and there. But the child had been _hers_...and the feeling of Rin laying across her chest, the feeling of her daughter in her arms, had filled Azula with an emotion she hadn't felt in a very long time. She hadn't recognized it then, but it had been there. It still was there.

She'd insisted, at the time, that her tears were merely a physiological response to the pain and nothing more. Most mothers wept after giving birth, didn't they? "Don't think this changes anything, Zuzu."

But it did.

She'd nursed Rin whenever they'd brought Rin to her, and in those moments, her mind had been anchored. She'd known who Rin was. She'd carried her, given birth to her, and named her. Everything else in the world could warp and fade and reappear without warning; everything else in the world could be disorderly and make no sense. But with Rin there, things had gone still. Things had become warmer, softer, like the summer sunlight on her skin.

But when Rin was gone, her mind had turned back into glass. Everything reflected, refracted, and shattered. Truth and reality slid away from her. In those days, she'd still had some embers in her veins. And one day, she'd had a nightmare about that last Agni Kai. The bed had ignited around her, and Rin, who was being held by the nurse at that time, had _shrieked_ at the heat and the hellish noise coming from her mother's throat.

Azula had relented, finally, to what Zuko had been insisting on. She couldn't risk her daughter's life—not when she wasn't getting any better—and Zuko and the water peasant would make good guardians. She'd known them well enough to know that. So she'd held Rin one last time and said goodbye.

Then she'd handed her child over to Zuko and turned away. When the door had closed, Azula had tried to shut away her thoughts of her daughter. She'd tried to focus on reality. _Rin_ _will be safe now_ , she'd told herself. She'd had to believe that or she'd have gone madder than she already was. _Zuko_ _will_ _protect_ _her._ She'd known that. She _knew_ _that_...

And so the years had passed and she'd been given glimpses into Rin's life. She'd found refuge in the fact that Rin wouldn't be hurt by her or become like her, and that she'd made the right choice in giving her up.

Regret should have no place in her heart, knowing that...

One day, she starts from her memory-dreams to the sound of the door opening. She sits up in her bed, pushes back her far-too-long hair, and sees Zuko standing in the doorway. How strange—he'd visited her the previous week. She asks him if his paperwork and his wife can afford to wait (if he can pester her about her child, then she can pester him about not having one yet).

His jaw clenches, but then he sighs and says, "Rin wanted to see you. I couldn't tell her no."

And there is the feeling of the floor caving beneath her, of her stomach turning over, of her heart pounding against her ribs. Shock overwhelms her fury—she'd told him no a thousand times! But then Rin is standing there, looking nervous, but also _looking_ at the mother she hasn't seen in years. Ten years.

 _She's grown so much_ , Azula thinks, which is ridiculous, because she has the photographs. So she knows that her daughter has grown and yet...it's been so long.

Azula doesn't know what to feel. She isn't happy, but for her daughter's sake, she tries. She stands, smooths her robes, and tries to think of what to say. "You might have warned me, Zuzu," she tells him. Then she turns her gaze back to her daughter and asks, "You wanted to see me?"

Rin looks uncertain, but nods. An awkward silence stretches between them. Azula tries again. "Why?" Why would this girl want to see the monster she'd come from? Why would she want to see "Crazy Fire Lord Azula"?

Truth be told, Azula doesn't think she wants to be seen by Rin. She's weak, unable to bend, and not in her right mind. She'd once been strong, formidable, whole, but now...well, a shadow is all that's left, and the shadow is ashamed.

But Rin, though uncertain at first, speaks up. She tells Azula about a fight she'd had with some snot of a boy, and for a moment, Azula feels a flutter of pleasure—which then skitters into fear. Rin is _like_ _her_ —but no, Rin _can't_ be like her! She _can't_!

But the more that Rin talks about the boy, about her school, about the palace and the other parts of her life, the more Azula's worry is eased. In its place forms an awful ache: because Rin isn't like her and that is good...but Rin is what Azula could have been. Had Azula been born in a time of peace—had Ozai and Ursa raised her with warmth—and had she made so many choices differently, she could have been like Rin.

That truth is hard to face and grapple with, but it is there all the same.

Rin tells her other things as well. Eventually, she focuses on firebending. In this, their thoughts run parallel. There is a great joy in bending and Azula discovers—to her delight—that she can give her daughter insight into her own experiences with it. She doesn't tell Rin about the dark side of the fire, about the scent of burning hair and skin, about the screams or the scars. Rin can learn about that side from her books (or more, if need requires) in time. She tells Rin about the bright side of the fire, about the beauty and the grace and the _life_ that can be found in bending flames. They move on to talking about the forms they've both tried and experimented with, and in those moments, it feels a little like Azula's dreams.

Zuko gives them time, but eventually the sun starts to set and it's time for them to leave—for the warmth and light to fade.

Neither Azula nor Rin are certain what to do, but eventually Rin bites her lip and asks, "Can I come see you again, Mother?"

Hearing _that_ is like a kick to the stomach, and Azula, had she been moving, might have staggered. She does sway, and for a long moment she considers saying no. A large part of her wants to say no, that it isn't safe, that she can't bear to see Rin and be reminded of her failures, or for Rin to see her this way. But though she tries to say those words, they are ashes in her throat.

"If you wish, Rin," she whispers.

She is unprepared for when her daughter steps forward to hug her around the waist. After a moment, she hugs Rin back awkwardly. All too soon, Rin pulls away and rejoins her uncle. He takes her hand and the door opens.

Azula sees her daughter look back at her once. She sees her brother smile. Then the door closes and the sunlight fades outside of her window.

Sometimes, Azula loses herself. She dreams and remembers and walks through the hallways of her prison, not knowing what is real from what she imagines. Her mind is a storm, but occasionally, on the good days, there is a break in the clouds. A ray of sunlight shines through. She feels its warmth deep inside of her and feels sparks kindling in her veins again. She may never _fully_ heal or return to who she was (Ursa's death had eliminated the former possibility, and she isn't certain that she wants the latter to come to pass)—but when Rin visits her, when the sun comes out, she is _better_. She is almost the _Azula who could have been_. She _is_ the Azula who can love and be loved—and that makes enduring the storms worth it.


End file.
